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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25579132">War in Heaven</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/twnkwlf/pseuds/twnkwlf'>twnkwlf</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst, Drug Use, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Endgame Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish, Fight Club - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Joseph Kavinsky is His Own Warning, M/M, Physical Abuse, Slow Burn, Street fighting, Tenderness, Violence, it's less of a fight club and more like an illegal underground boxing ring okay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 03:34:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,361</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25579132</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/twnkwlf/pseuds/twnkwlf</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"I hope they taught you how to throw a punch in that trailer park, Parrish.”</p><p>Adam squared his jaw a little. He could throw a punch, sure. He could take one even better. He gestured to bruise on his cheek, Robert Parrish’s handiwork, which looked a lot like Ronan’s own shiner. “You should see the other guy,” he lied. </p><p>An au where Ronan is Kavinsky's dog, Adam is desperate, and both of them are fighting for something bigger than themselves.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joseph Kavinsky/Ronan Lynch, Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>116</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. the dragon and his angels fought back</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i posted this first chapter last year, but it took it down because it needed work. i'm in quarantine, so i've revisited this deeply fucked up concept!  </p><p>this au asks the question "what if kavinsky ran a street fighting ring instead of a street racing ring?" </p><p>full cw warnings in the end notes</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Rejoice then, O heaven and you that dwell therein! </em>
</p><p>
  <em>But woe to you, O earth and sea, for the devil has come down to you in great wrath, because he knows that his time is short. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>-  Revelations 12:12</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>For the first time in years Ronan was late for mass. </p><p>He poured into the pew next to Matthew just as the priest was finishing the blessing of the eucharist. Breaking the host in half, Father Hector seemed to look directly at Ronan as he sang the liturgy, visibly irritated. Ronan was out of breath, eyes dry, mouth even more so. His heartbeat felt precarious and his hands shook when he brought them together in prayer. Mouthing rather than whispering the <em>amen, </em>Ronan realized that his knuckles were still caked in dried blood which he tried to discreetly flake off onto the already stained carpet below.</p><p>He was in no shape to withstand Declan’s glare—he was barely in shape to withstand the priest’s—so he kept his eyes down to avoid them both, but he could practically feel Declan’s burning a hole into his already bruised cheek.</p><p>“Unbelievable,” said Declan. He said this as though it was in fact very believable.</p><p>“Shut your mouth,” mumbled Ronan.</p><p>“Guys, Mrs. Morin is giving us The Look,” Matthew whined.</p><p>Mrs. Morin, the organ player who wore an aggressively purple blouse every Sunday, was no fan of the Lynch brothers. She often made it clear to them with expert passive aggression and belittling. Last week she pretended that she’d forgotten Declan’s name and called him “Dennis” in a way that felt like a direct attack. Today she was hitting them with a pointed stare sharp enough to cast a curse. He didn’t have have it in him to glare back at her like he usually would, and anyway, the Lynch family was already cursed. What difference did it make?</p><p>The brothers were silenced.</p><p>Despite missing most of it, the mass seemed to drag on and on. The diffused light through the stained-glass windows made his vision blurry and his stomach churn. God, he was hungover—it was possible that he was still fucked up.</p><p>When he swallowed the Communion wafer, he wondered if it was compatible with all the different poisons he had swallowed last night. Ronan’s blood was so bitter with drugs and demonic boys that it seemed impossible for the Body of Christ to win out.  </p><p>He paused during the prayer, sinking heavy into the leather of the kneeler. He closed his eyes, made the sign of the cross, and like the good Catholic boy he was, he thought of his sins. He thought of all the rage, and the blood, and the bones—the horrible, wonderful sound of them breaking. He thought of the smooth glide of alcohol down his gullet, the acrid powder dripping down the back of the throat, the silence inside the car as stubbled skin slid against his.  </p><p>A silent prayer slipped out of him then. <em>Forgive me, </em>he thought, looking up at the alter. He didn’t know if he was asking God, the priest, or Declan, but he let it go into the holy ether and tried to focus instead on the way Mrs. Morin’s organ hymn assaulted his ear drums.</p><p>He was here, at least, even if he was half-asleep and half-high and very poor in spirit. Heaven was made for confessors like him.</p><p> </p><p>/</p><p> </p><p>Kavinsky’s laugh got louder and emptier with every crunch of fist against cheek.</p><p>Ronan was temporarily distracted by the sound, only because he’d come to be equal parts relieved and regretful to illicit this kind of mood from K. It was a Molotov cocktail kind of laugh, bringing the light, but only at the cost of an explosion.</p><p>This allowed the other fighter to land a quick jab on his left side, in the ribs, knocking him off balance for a moment. Ronan adjusted his stance because this guy was trying to come at him from the sides, wear him down with heavy gut-punches. He bent low as a fist swiped at the air, but Ronan was expecting it this time, watching the direction of his elbows and predicting the swing. After a few minutes of this back and forth, the crowd got too quiet. He knew the fight meant nothing if it wasn’t entertaining, so Ronan threw his weight into the guy’s torso and drove forward like a bull. He knocked the guy on his ass and scrambled to hold him in place.</p><p>Kavinsky’s laugh was like a direct order.</p><p>He brought his fists down in quick, hard, successions. He barely registered the damage that the first one did before the other came down on him again. The guy’s face was starting to look devilish, red with blood and contorted with pain, but Ronan kept swinging until finally, <em>finally</em> the guy thrust out a hand and tapped out. Plumes of dust rose as he slapped the ground.</p><p>Just as soon as it was over, Ronan was being hauled up by Prokopenko. Someone pushed his half-empty beer back into his hand as he staggered, dazed and needing to catch his breath. Someone else tossed him his shirt, which he used to wipe the mixture of blood and sweat from his chest. Kavinsky watched him as he did this, so Ronan took a swig of his beer to try and shake the strange feeling it gave him. He swallowed his own blood in the process, the metallic sting mixing unpleasantly with the taste of cheap lager.</p><p>“Pay up, bitches,” Kavinsky shouted to the group of locals who were now trying to get their fighter to stand. They were townies who had come from the football team of the public high school with three hundred dollars to bet and a lot of ego, but now they all looked painfully small in the garish car headlights that lit up the field.</p><p>“That move was bullshit!” one of them tried. “This was supposed to be a fist scrap!”</p><p>The pain in Ronan’s spent knuckles tried to make itself known just then. So did the dread, snaking its way up his intestines. <em>Just pay, </em>he thought,<em> just pay just pay just pay.  </em></p><p>“Come on, like, what’s the first rule of fight club?” He looked around like he expected an answer.</p><p>Ronan sighed, closing his eyes.</p><p>Then Kavinsky removed the pistol from his waistband and everyone collectively gasped, groaned, or let out a small shriek. Some people cursed quietly and some people turned their backs to scene, not wanting to spoil the mood of the party with fear, and not wanting to get near one of Joseph Kavinsky’s war machines. Ronan wanted to leave, too, but it wasn’t an option. He was one of Joseph Kavinsky’s war machines.</p><p>“The first rule of fight club is: <em>fuck you, pay me</em>.”</p><p>“Nah, K, that’s from Goodfellas, man,” said Prokopenko. He was completely unfazed by the gun’s presence as he lined up three tiny red solo shots on top of his car’s spoiler.</p><p>“Well, them’s the rules, boys." His smile was cavalier. “Don’t be mad because my dog bites harder than yours. Speaking of— Lynch! Get over here.”</p><p>Ronan tried to not look at the football team as he crossed the makeshift fighting ring. It was just a patch of grass, but it had been flattened to dust and had more teenage blood spilled on it than anywhere else in Henrietta.</p><p>“Here,” Kavinsky said, pressing the pistol into Ronan’s hands. Ronan grit his teeth, sparing only a few moments to get used to the weight of it. He knew this gun because Kavinsky could never resist showing it to him. Sometimes it sat out on the coffee table while they were in K’s basement, looking menacing amongst the dirty bongs, the empty pill bottles, and spent bags of Doritos.</p><p>Ronan lifted it and aimed toward the group of boys.</p><p>“Six hundred. Now."  <em>Just pay up. Just get out of here.  </em></p><p>With slow, timid movements, one of the jocks took out his wallet and threw down the cash. It landed somewhat poetically in the dirty pool of blood by Ronan’s feet. They all got up from the dust, hands raised, backing away.</p><p>“These rich fucks are crazy,” he heard one of them say as they limped off into the dark.</p><p>“Y’all come back now, ya hear!” Kavinsky called, putting an insulting accent on.</p><p>Ronan still had the gun raised, unsure. Kavinsky slid his hand over Ronan’s for a second longer than it took to get the gun from him and then he barked, “let’s bounce.”</p><p>“The money?" It was still laying on the ground, blood slowly soaking into the cotton.</p><p>K left the money where it was. He swiped the gun from Ronan’s loose grip and tucked it back in the waistband of his designer jeans. They both climbed into the white Mitsubishi and left the six hundred dollars behind for some drunk asshole to pocket.</p><p>It was never really about the money.</p><p>Ronan leaned back into the headrest as Kavinsky’s favourite and relentless Russian bass blared through the subwoofers. He was starting to feel the effects of the adrenaline and the fight now that he was in an enclosed space.  He struggled to keep his eyes open, even as the Mitsubishi whipped onto the road, nearly defying physics with how fast it escaped the party in the field.</p><p>“Don’t crash on me,” Kavinsky said with bite. “Or I’ll crash on you.” He jerked the wheel of the car, sending Ronan, unbuckled, flying into the dash, against K’s shoulder.</p><p>Then he was being handed whatever was left of the coke stash for the night. Ronan rubbed a hand down his face and contemplated the powder. It was Saturday night. He had to be up for mass in the morning.</p><p>He kept his eyes on the road ahead, lines of the highway disappearing underneath them, faster and faster. Kavinsky’s hot, dry hand reached out for his head, his nails dragging almost painfully over Ronan’s buzzcut, leaving the follicles raw and disturbed. It sent a shiver down his spine, unpleasant and satisfying at the same time. It was a silent nudge. After almost two years, Ronan spoke Kavinsky’s language fluently.</p><p>Ronan took out his keys and dug a little mound of coke out, inhaling quickly and with the edge of a moan. It burned through his nostril and down the back of his throat. He rubbed his nose and tried to ease into the feeling, even though it dragged him up and up and up. He preferred the coke to most other powders in K’s collection, but it sent his heartbeat ricocheting off the walls of his chest in a panicky way.</p><p> Kavinsky’s hand had slid down the back of his neck, kneading. He turned a corner too fast and made the wheels scream against the asphalt, laughing a little as Ronan spilled some coke on his crotch.</p><p>Kavinsky, without even looking, moved his hand down and collected the spilled powder, bringing it straight to his mouth to rub it into his gums.</p><p>Ronan’s breath hitched. He expected this. Kavinsky was always like this after a fight.</p><p>They drove a little while longer, all the while, Kavinsky placed his hand firmly on Ronan’s thigh, edging closer and closer to the seam. Ronan’s head swam with too much sensation— he wanted to ignore it. He knew it would be better to ignore it, but Kavinsky wanted attention more than he wanted almost anything else and ignoring him always backfired in some way. </p><p>“You looked gangster as shit with a gun, Lynch,” he said, turning off the music with smack of his fist.</p><p>“Why’d you even bring it? Like I fucking needed it. Those guys were soft.”</p><p>“I wanted to see what you would do with it. You pussied out, though.”</p><p>Kavinsky suddenly threw the gear down and whipped into shoulder of the dark road. He turned the car off and lifted himself up, drawing out the gun and shaking it in front of Ronan’s face. “Tell me you’ve never thought about it. Pulling the trigger. BANG!”</p><p>“Fuck off, K,” Ronan said softly. Softer than he’d meant to. This seemed to piss Kavinsky off.</p><p>“I <em>know </em>you’ve thought about icing your cuck of a brother. Don’t even lie.”</p><p>Ronan didn’t reply. He just pressed his head back into the headrest until it kind of hurt.</p><p>“Or whoever took out your dad, right? I bet you’ve fucking crushed them in your dreams. Some Tarantino shit. You’d empty this bitch into that guy’s face until he didn’t have a face.” K turned the gun sideways, inspecting it. “You’d stop to reload and keep going.”</p><p>Ronan hated that Kavinsky’s imagination was so close to his own psyche. He hated to hear Kavinsky speak about his dad like he had any idea, any inclination at all of how deep Ronan’s hatred really ran. A sick Tarantino fantasy couldn’t touch it.  </p><p>Kavinsky pushed the gun in between them and his thumb hovered over the safety.  “You should have pulled the trigger tonight, Ro,” he said.</p><p>Ronan took a long, calculated look into Kavinsky’s eyes before leaning forward until the barrel of the gun hit his chest. His heart thundered in his ears. Kavinsky stared into Ronan’s face with a complex expression as his finger traced the bruise on Ronan’s cheek, pressing it slightly to make it sting.</p><p>“You know what? I bet you would have shot those pig farmer fucks tonight if I told you to, wouldn’t you?” His voice was low, almost a mumble. He moved his hand to Ronan’s thigh, incessantly kneading and prodding and slithering closer to where Ronan was stirring. K looked down at his crotch and scoffed, like it was embarrassing, like Ronan was an idiot for wanting it. Kavinsky slithered under Ronan’s shirt, pulling at his waistband. After a moment, his hand slipped inside. Ronan cursed and threw his head back.</p><p>The gun was still between them.</p><p>“If I got you off first, maybe. You’d do anything I fucking say. You’re such a—“ He didn’t finish the sentence, but Ronan felt the ghost of whatever word he was thinking.</p><p>Ronan bit the inside of his cheek, ripping open his split lip in the process. He swallowed the blood back and hissed. Kavinsky was too rough, too fast, too much.</p><p>“Would you kill for me?”</p><p>He pressed the gun into Ronan’s chest until it felt like he was being impaled with it, until his heart pounded against the barrel of it, until it felt like the gun itself would enter his body long before a bullet.</p><p>“Would you <em>die for me</em>, Lynch?” he asked, like it was some kind of test.</p><p>“Yes, <em>fuck," </em>Ronan groaned, not because he knew it was true, but because he didn’t know. Or because he really was what K thought—he really would do anything, <em>anything, </em>to feel wanted like this.</p><p>Really, Ronan didn’t think it mattered whether you died for someone or for nothing. It didn’t matter if you were the hero or the villain or even a nameless pawn in something bigger. As far as he could tell, his own father had died and it had meant nothing, in the end. And Kavinsky felt like nothing—all the drugs, the games, the violence. It was sometimes the only thing holding Ronan together in one piece. What was pain compared to nothingness?</p><p>He let that vacuous feeling overcome him as Kavinsky finished him off in the musty shared air of the Mitsubishi, like he’d let him so many times before, like he’d let him keep doing forever, probably. And it meant nothing.  </p><p>Kavinsky laughed with a menacing edge as he carelessly wiped his hand on Ronan’s jeans. He threw the gun into the console and leaned back in the seat. With shaky hands, Ronan did himself back up. His knuckles ached to even bend. His chest felt hollow where the gun had been pressed.</p><p>Beside him, Kavinsky unzipped his khakis, pulling them down to reveal the flashy neon underwear beneath. He looked through Ronan’s eyes, rather than into them, as he wordlessly gestured for Ronan to start.</p><p>“Do another line first,” he told him.</p><p> </p><p>/</p><p> </p><p>After mass, when the bells began to ring, Ronan tried to avoid Declan by swiftly ruffling Matthew’s hair in both greeting and departure, then slipping through the sparse crowd of Henrietta catholics to the front doors.</p><p>It didn’t work, of course. Declan cornered him on the bottom stair as the old ladies trickled out around them.</p><p>“I need to talk to you.” This was a wasted sentiment, he thought. Declan always needed to talk to Ronan. “And you’ve been ignoring my calls.”</p><p>“What?” he spat. Maybe it was the exhaustion or the cocaine, but Ronan's resolve to ignore him began to crumble. </p><p>“I’ve arranged a meeting with the Dean of Aglionby for you to discuss continuing your senior year in the Fall.”</p><p>Ronan longed to roll his eyes, but he thought better of it, given the nausea. Instead he turned his back to Declan and started to walk to the side street where his car was parked in a loading zone. Hopefully there wasn’t a ticket. Declan chased after him.</p><p>“It wasn’t easy to get this meeting, you know!” He had to yell because the church bells were starting to ring. “You only need three more credits to graduate, they said. Plenty of students come back for a victory lap or…or to finish up if they were ill during their senior year.”</p><p>Ronan had not been ill during his senior year. He said nothing, digging for his keys with shaky hands.</p><p>“Just because you failed last term doesn’t mean you can’t get the diploma. You could graduate by Christmas and be done with it. And then college? Real opportunity? It’s that easy, Ronan.”</p><p>“You are truly beyond fucking delusional, Dennis,” Ronan said over his shoulder.</p><p>“Dad wanted you to finish Aglionby.”</p><p>He threw up his middle finger, finally finding the key fob in his pocket. Normally, invoking their father would have sent Ronan into a frenzy, but he had spent most of his anger last night and now felt nothing but a chilly pang in his chest where the rage would normally boil.</p><p>“Kavinsky is going to leave here in the Fall, you know. You do know that, right? I was told he got into Columbia, the <em>crooked, useless, waste of</em>—“</p><p>“I need you,” Ronan said, finally spinning around to face him. “To stop. Talking.”</p><p>“Or what, Ronan? Can you even hit me with that bruised up hand? Christ, look at you.” Declan was stepping closer with this look on his face that was more ashamed than angry.</p><p>In the end, Ronan didn’t hit Declan. He bent over and vomited all over his brown leather oxfords.</p><p>After that, what was there to be said? Declan looked disgusted and betrayed at the same time, cursing quietly to himself, putting more space between him and Ronan.</p><p>Ronan spat on the sidewalk, endorphins coursing through him and lifting his mood for a moment. He got into his car as Declan walked away, shaking his head.</p><p>The air outside was dense with mid-summer humidity and the sound of the bells. Ronan turned the engine over and had to slam his fist on the console to shut up the blaring music he’d left on. He should have peeled out of there as soon as Declan left, but he didn’t want to return to Kavinsky’s basement just yet, even though K would be passed out until the sun went down. He sat in the driver’s seat of the car with the air conditioning on and, despite everything feeling so far out of his control, he tried to come back into his body.</p><p>He watched Matthew make a funny face at Declan’s shoes on the steps of St. Agnes. He watched them both walk quickly to the Volvo before anyone caught notice of the smell, probably. He watched his brothers leave and felt hollowed out in the middle.</p><p>He watched the churchgoers dissipate across the street and into their cars. He watched the altar boy lock the front doors of the church and make his way to the rectory. He watched a bumble bee attempt to enter his car.</p><p>Then he watched Adam Parrish walk by.  </p><p>Ronan, perhaps for the first time ever, wished that he could be back in school at that moment, listening to Parrish recite Latin poetry for brownie points. He had burned the image of the second-hand Aglionby uniform into the recesses of his mind, so it was a strange sort of thrill to see what he looked like in the civilized world.</p><p>He was wearing a plain white t-shirt, marked with dark smudges and stains. He had a mechanic’s jumpsuit tied around his waist and long, handsome features tanned darker from the summer. He had a bruise blossoming on his cheek, almost an exact mirror to the one that Ronan now sported.</p><p>He wore a facial expression that belied nothing at all. He was unreadable, unknowable, like Ronan wished to be.</p><p>How many words had they exchanged in Latin? Two? A sentence? It felt like it had been years, rather than just a few months ago.</p><p>The chill in his chest warmed a little at the memory, and Ronan didn’t know what else to do but drive the car. As he swung around the corner onto the main street, Parrish shot him a look through the window. Ronan stared back until he put the car in gear, speeding toward the suburbs, where he would drink his hangover away and wait for Kavinsky to drag him out into the night again.  </p><p> </p><p> /</p><p> </p><p>The letter burned a hole in his pocket all the way to work.</p><p>Adam knew he should have left it back at home, but there was no way to guarantee that Robert Parrish wouldn’t find it. There were no floorboards in his double-wide, and he couldn’t exactly tear up the cheap linoleum, could he? How many times had cash disappeared from the secret corners of his room? How many times had a letter from Aglionby ended up under a pile of cigarette ash in the garbage? How agonizing had it been to wait for his college acceptance letters, knowing that if his father was in the wrong place at the right time, they could be fed to the neighbor’s dog?</p><p>So, Adam folded the letter from Harvard in half with careful precision, tucked it into the deepest pocket of his jumpsuit, and planned to put it with all the other possessions he kept in an old toolbox under one of the neglected cabinets at Boyd’s Auto Shop. He hoped Boyd wouldn’t soon be struck by the semi-annual urge to purge the junk that usually accumulated there, a task he always referred to as “spring cleaning,” regardless of the current season.</p><p>He was supposed to be working on complicated part change for an old Volkswagen today. It was a task that required attention and focus.</p><p>But Adam’s thoughts were on an endless merry-go-round.</p><p>
  <em>You need to make a deposit by July to keep your place. You don’t have the money. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>You don’t have the money so you’ll have to defer a semester. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>You have to stay here and work. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>You will have another setback, probably, and have to stay even longer. They’ll reject your deferral. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>You will never go to college. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>You are not meant for it. </em>
</p><p>It was stupid—an oversight that the Aglionby guidance counsellor should have spotted, maybe. Adam won great scholarship for Harvard, but of course,<em> of course</em> he still needed to come up with a percentage of his tuition this summer to secure his place. All the money he’d saved went toward the dorm room deposit and now he had a meagre $360.00 left in his secret savings account. There were waitlists upon waitlists of people begging for admission, and all of them had the money to burn.</p><p>Adam had woken earlier than early that morning to walk from the trailer park down to Boyd’s shop. He could have biked, but he needed to move, to think. He didn’t know if it was making the situation better or worse, being in his own head.</p><p>There had to be something. There had to be <em>something. </em> </p><p>He needed five thousand dollars by the end of the summer and there was no stone left unturned by Adam Parrish when it came to earning a living in this town.</p><p>He walked past St. Agnes church as the mass let out, as middle-class families from the surrounding housing developments poured out onto the street, chatting about their perfectly benign problems to each other, humming in agreement about the new priest’s subpar homily, about their daughter’s inadequate gymnastics coach.</p><p>“He’s not going to get Kaitlyn to regionals with <em>that </em>attitude,” said a blonde woman holding a geometric Kate Spade handbag. Adam wondered how much cash she kept inside it.</p><p>He wondered if she donated to the church. How many envelopes holding discreet bills were currently tucked into the back of the church pews, waiting for collection?</p><p>He blinked away the thoughts and kept on his path toward Boyd’s. Strange ideas often ran wild in the hungry hours between work and school, between waking and sleeping, between pay checks. He crossed the street to be rid of the chatter.</p><p>Somewhere nearby, an engine sprang to life.</p><p>He stepped over an incongruous puddle of something disgusting on the street,  checking the time, as a car turned the corner past him. He spared one discreet look at the driver. It was a familiar grey BMW, and inside was a familiar buzz cut. It was Ronan Lynch, the disgraced prince of Aglionby.</p><p>He looked worse for wear, but he stared at Adam long enough that he imagined Lynch rolling down the window and shouting something at him. The crew he rolled with was infamously mean spirited. He’d watched them dominate every hall they walked through at school with the same unhinged authority as a pack of cartoon hyenas.</p><p>Last he heard, Ronan Lynch had dropped out of Aglionby a month before graduation, no college prospects on his horizon at all.</p><p>Last he heard, Ronan Lynch was failing everything except Latin and fist-fighting.</p><p>He was a piece of work. Adam thought that they were all just like their flashy oversized cars. They did nothing but consume energy and waste it by staying in place, revving their engines and spinning their wheels.</p><p>Lynch changed gear with surprising finesse, burning toward the horizon where the summer heat was bending the light, so he became just a ripple of black in the distance. Adam watched him go and felt a hunger in his belly which had little to do with its emptiness.</p><p>He longed for that kind of excess. He imagined the freedom that came with it. He imagined spending his nights out in the abandoned cabbage fields where Kavinsky’s parties loomed large, where the thrills were worth crashing your car over, worth a fist full of Ronan Lynch.</p><p>He bit the inside of his cheek, which was still healing from last week’s big argument with his dad over a burned slice of breakfast toast. Adam was so tired of coming up with ideas, but this one blew through him like a bullet through paper.</p><p>A hungry, wild, terrible idea.</p><p> </p><p>/</p><p> </p><p>Skov and Jiang were playing Fortnite in the basement at such a loud volume that Ronan could hear the sound of gunshots all the way upstairs in the kitchen. It didn’t help that the kitchen was the most neglected corner of Kavinsky’s huge suburban mansion, so the sound echoed against the sleek, untouched marble and stainless steel in a truly grotesque way.</p><p>Ronan nursed a cocktail of orange juice, vodka, and and the occasional handful of sugary cereal. He leaned his head onto the cold island counter and breathed deeply to exercise the nervous energy in his bones.</p><p>“Oh, it’s you,” came a voice behind him. It was K’s mom dressed in just her slinky, ever-present silk night robe. It wasn’t tied very tightly, bra peeking out, but she didn’t cover up. She might have for Jiang or Skov, who often soliloquized about the thousand different ways they would attempt to become Kavinsky’s new stepdad. Mrs. K was so beautiful, but a part of her must have known it wasted on him.</p><p>“Who else would it be?” Ronan said. No one used the kitchen. He hadn’t seen K eat anything besides McDonalds and sour candy since he met him.</p><p>She went to the cabinet above the stove and retrieved a basket full of prescription bottles. She sighed as she shook an empty one, tossing it angrily into the sink.</p><p>“Tell him to stop taking my fucking Ambien. I haven’t slept in two days.”</p><p>Ronan shrugged. “I’ll tell him that.”</p><p>She shot him a withering look through her clumped, day-old mascara. It was possible that she hadn’t slept in two days because she’d been at the casino with one of the old lawyer dudes who sometimes hung around.</p><p>Ronan could hardly remember the cleaned-up version of her who had signed all those papers with Aglionby, and had impressed the state social worker who oversaw it. She had aged ten years in two. Ronan wondered how much that had to do with her pseudo-adopting one of her son’s playthings or if it was just the side effect of being near Joseph Kavinsky in the prime of his youth. Perhaps Ronan looked much older now, too.</p><p>As she took a seat in the pristine white island barstool beside him, she touched his forehead with the back of her hand. “You don’t look so good, darling,” she mused. Her voice was sweet, bare edge of slavic accent curling around it. Ronan winced. He didn’t want her to touch him like she was his mom, but he also leaned into her hand.</p><p>Sometime around last Christmas, surrounded by bleary lights and endless cups full of Baileys and spiced rum, she had told him “<em>I’m glad Joseph found you</em>.”</p><p>He handed her the vodka orange juice.</p><p>She handed him a pill.</p><p>They turned on the small television that was installed in the refrigerator and watched an inane afternoon talk show where the hosts were attempting to make some kind of casserole that was going to <em>change your weeknight routine forever! </em></p><p>They probably could have spent all night like that, thoughtless and satiated by the clink of ice cubes against the glass. Then golden hour hit with long, intrusive beams of light stretching over the shiny hardwood floors. Ronan felt the pull of the basement as the dark won over.</p><p>Downstairs, the boys were just making the transition from video games to porn on the flatscreen, and two girls had materialized from somewhere, one of them slipping out of Kavinsky’s bedroom with a dazed expression and no pants.</p><p>He found Kavinsky in a similar state in his room. Ronan was the only one allowed in without knocking and so he shut out the noise of over-produced sex and pressed play on Kavinsky’s speakers. He flopped down on the bed which stank in an unsettlingly familiar way. K sat on the edge, cleaning out a pipe with a safety pin. He stopped for a moment to jab Ronan in the hand with it.</p><p>“Ow, fuck off.”</p><p>“You like it,” K muttered, focused on the task at hand.</p><p>Ronan watched him out of the side of his eye, trying to lean into the soothing base playing low on the speaker. He allowed himself to think about this morning, to remember how Declan’s disdain had wrapped around the words <em>“I was told he got into Columbia—“. </em></p><p>He wanted to believe that it was all bullshit, like most of the things that came out of Declan’s mouth, but it lingered just like the stench of the spent weed in K’s pipe.</p><p>“What day is it?” Ronan asked, hatching a plan to bring it up.</p><p>“Doomsday,” K said without looking at him.</p><p>“No, for real. Is it August?”</p><p>“You have a fucking phone, grandpa, do you not?” It came out low and half-hearted in the way Kavinsky could only manage when he was sober. Ronan savoured the tone of his voice like this.</p><p>“Proko has it. I think he used it for target practice.”</p><p>Kavinsky was silent for a while, tipping the burned-up bits of weed onto the already disastrous carpet. He seemed like he was cold, huddling into the oversized sweater that probably belonged to Skov. His bare and goose bumped legs were crossed under himself, his hands were pale yet dexterous as he packed the bowl tightly.</p><p>“It’s the first of August,” he said suddenly. “Alexa, play Summertime Sadness!”</p><p>She did. Ronan rubbed a hand over his face and thought that there was no way for him to broach the question that was haunting him without it ending in humiliation, but he had to know. He had to know what was next.</p><p>“So, you’re leaving in three weeks, then?”</p><p>Kavinsky lit the pipe and didn’t answer him, just blew a smoke ring with expertise toward the pale patch of light filtering in through the single pane window near the ceiling. That seemed like answer enough.</p><p>“Columbia,” Ronan said, letting it hang in the air with the smoke. What he really wanted to say was, <em>am I’m coming with you?</em></p><p>“Fuck that.” Kavinsky stood up, stretching so that the sweater rode up, revealing a nearly concave stomach. His veins were so blue against his skin. “UC Berkley, baby. I wanna surf.”</p><p>“But you <em>got into </em>Columbia? Fucking how?” He prayed that K wouldn’t ask how he knew this. He didn’t want to admit that he let Declan get to him.</p><p>Kavinsky seemed too preoccupied with digging around in his chaotic dresser to answer. He shucked out of his underwear and threw them at Ronan’s head instead.</p><p>“College is such bullshit,” Ronan sighed, tossing them back at K’s head. He knew it sounded weak. He was boiling over, boiling not because he was angry, but because he didn’t know what this unnamable, heavy feeling was.  </p><p>If K was going to run off to destroy a Berkley county beachfront without him then it would be fine. It would be fine because K never made promises and Ronan didn’t want anything from him, anyway. Ronan knew better than to try and put a name to the past two years of his life. Kavinsky was likely to evaporate into the air like dank smoke that trickled out of his mouth, like a phantom. Ronan knew better than to believe in phantoms and ghosts.</p><p>Kavinsky had thrown on a pair of Ronan’s boxers, but made no effort to change the sweater, which Ronan now recognized as one of his own. He took another long pull from the pipe. Then he climbed onto the bed, knees edging up either side of Ronan’s hips. He knelt over him for a long time, staring down at him with vacant eyes. He finally blew the smoke out through the thin line of his mouth, bending low to puff into Ronan’s face. Ronan inhaled him. Kavinsky stayed low, stayed close, until he was all Ronan could see, smell, and hear.  </p><p>His hand slithered up to Ronan’s neck and scratched at the stubble there. Ronan stared back at him blankly, trying to be like a mirror.</p><p>“What’s with the goddamn 20 questions? Your head is fucked,” Kavinsky said, low in his throat. He tapped an index finger against the vein in Ronan’s temple.</p><p>Ronan wet his lips. He lowered his voice to match him. “What do you think I should do about that?”</p><p>If Kavinsky had been drunk, he might have made a joke and shot him a sick smile before pressing his body hard against him and cutting to the chase. But he was sober, only hovering high from the weed, and Ronan could see him more clearly, like the lens had been wiped clear of the fog. He could see his want radiating.</p><p>His lips touched Ronan’s throat, nestling deep, and he bit hard until it felt like he would never release him. Ronan bravely slid his hands over K’s back. They didn’t usually get like this before midnight and Ronan wanted for it, wanted to chase the feeling, wanted the memory of it to stay whole in his head. Kavinsky seemed to materialize on top of him as he kissed up Ronan’s jaw with sharp nips. Thoughts of college and Declan and empty Autumns slipped away as he reached Ronan’s lips, breathing softly over them, on the edge of a real kiss. Kissing didn’t really seem like an activity that Joseph Kavinsky was built for, but Ronan moved his head to invite him in closer.</p><p>There was a knock at the door. “Kavinsky! Where the fuck’s your Amex at? We gotta get the keg,” Skov yelled.</p><p>In instant, the mood changed. It ended. Kavinsky pulled himself away and stood up from the bed, searching for his hat and keys. He threw the latter painfully at Ronan as he yelled back, “You fags never pay for shit!”</p><p>Ronan rubbed his bandaged hand over his mouth where Kavinsky had been. He closed his eyes for a moment and catalogued the memory.</p><p>“Go get that shit and meet us in the field in an hour. And put air in the tires.”</p><p>“Do it yourself,” Ronan tried, though he knew it wouldn’t lead anywhere. K didn’t dignify him with a response, he only ghosted out of the room, leaving Ronan with confused expectations and a brutal hickey haunting his neck.</p><p> </p><p>/</p><p> </p><p>Adam was still formulating his plan when fate stepped in and delivered him an opportunity that very evening.</p><p>He was alone in the shop, having earned enough of Boyd’s trust to lock up himself when he was done, and he was working slowly at the engine for the Volkswagen. His fingers ached from twisting rusty metal and his back protested when he bent low for his tools, so he was taking his time with the last few tasks. It was swelteringly hot, even with the garage door open and the fan on high blast behind him. Adam wanted to be through with work because he always wanted to be through with work, but he didn’t want to go home either, where it was cooler, but not in a pleasant way.</p><p>“You got any air in this shithole?” came a voice, suddenly.</p><p>Adam looked up over the hood of the car to see Ronan Lynch in the doorway. He hadn’t heard him approaching over the whirring of the fan and his good ear turned away.</p><p>“It’s Henrietta in August,” he replied, wiping his hands on a rag. He knew this was not what Lynch was asking about, but Adam said it because Ronan Lynch was a guy who probably leisured around inside a central air-conditioned palace all day, and he could see the way sweat gathered on his temples.</p><p>“For my tires, obviously, dick.” He gestured to the white Mitsubishi parked on an angle behind him.</p><p>“<em>Your </em>tires?” He knew they belonged to Joseph Kavinsky. He allowed himself to feel a modicum of relief that Kavinsky didn’t seem to be with him right now. “The inflator is out back. I better help you with it.”</p><p>“I think I can manage to hook up an air pump." </p><p>Adam shrugged and turned back to the Volkswagen. “Suit yourself."</p><p>The inflator was perhaps the most run down and finicky piece of machinery in the entire shop, and that there was no way Ronan Lynch, with his bulky bandaged knuckles, would be able to finesse it. </p><p>Lynch only spared Adam an indignant eye roll before getting back into the car, which had been idling for the length of their conversation. With a squeal of its already limp looking tires, he whipped the thing unnecessarily fast round the back of the auto shop. Adam bit the inside of his cheek, listening and thinking. He was thinking, thinking, thinking.</p><p>It was about five minutes later that Adam heard the inevitable and resounding “<em>Motherfucker!”</em> ring out from behind the shop, and he threw down his rag to head to the back, trying to not appear too smug.</p><p>Lynch was growling at the inflator like he was seconds away from kicking it. The connector tube hissed into the quiet evening air, sputtering air against the oil stained asphalt next to the Mitsubishi. The back of Boyd’s shop was a mess of scrap metal and parts piled against the cheap siding of the building. There were empty rusted oil cans, some wiry half-destroyed stereos ripped from old cars, trash cans filled to the brim with old vinyl and stained interior carpets. Ronan Lynch standing there, with his Calvin Klein’s sticking out of expensive jeans, with his high-thread-count t-shirt hanging off him, looked like the most expensive and beautiful trash this junkyard had ever seen.</p><p>He glared in Adam’s direction and Adam tried not to smile with satisfaction.</p><p>“Here, let me." </p><p>As he crouched next to the tire with the unruly connector tube in his hand, he could feel how Lynch’s eyes moved up and down his body. He’d shed his shirt earlier in the day and was down to a grimy tank top. This was not the first time he’d felt Ronan Lynch looking. He reached up to re-start the inflator.</p><p>“This thing is a piece of shit.”</p><p>“It is,” Adam agreed. “You could always go to the Mister Transmission across town.” It was where most of the Aglionby boys took their flashy cars for service.</p><p>“It’s fucking dark out. They’re closed.” He paused for a moment and then asked, “why the hell are you here so late, anyway?”</p><p>Adam hooked the tube up to the tire and held it in place—it required an experienced hand to keep the flow of air steady and the hookup connected. He looked up at Ronan, who was towering over him now.</p><p>“Some of us have got to work for a living, Lynch.”</p><p>Ronan scoffed and smiled a little too wide, a little too amused. “You don’t think I work for my living, Parrish?”</p><p>Adam knew what he meant. He was covered in bruises and scratches that peeked out from under his expensive black t-shirt. His pale skin made them look all the more red and irritated, especially where a dark pink bruise was taking over his left cheek. It looked painful, but it somehow suited him. </p><p>He gestured to the bandaged knuckles on Ronan's right hand. “Is that what you call work?”</p><p>“Well, it was good enough for Muhammad Ali.”</p><p>Adam quietly chuckled at this. </p><p>“I don’t think Ali fought as dirty as y’all,” he said, accent slipping out at the last second. He pinched himself for it, then pinched the air tube, moving to the final tire.</p><p>“And how would you know how I fight? I’ve never seen you out at the fields.”</p><p>“I’ve never been invited.” This was a charged statement, more of a question, really. He said it, and then looked right at Lynch, who was wiping sweat from his brow and grinning again, a mirthful glow giving way to menace.</p><p>“Well shit, Parrish,” he said. “If you’re looking for work, just come out and say it.”</p><p>“I’m looking for work.” </p><p>Lynch eyed him up and down again and nodded, like he had made a silent choice. Adam's chest filled with something--excitement or dread, he wasn't sure. </p><p>“It's a three-hundred buy in,” Ronan said. This was also a question. </p><p>“Fine." It was the last of his savings, but Adam had it. He’d never had the privilege to gamble before, and he certainly didn't have it now, but it was somehow as exhilarating as it was terrifying.</p><p>Adam finished with the tires quickly. He turned off the hissing inflator and was met with the cricket-laden silence of the night. Above them, the automatic street light buzzed to life, and the energy buzzing between him and Lynch was palpable. His empty stomach lurched a little at the uncertainty.</p><p>Ronan handed Adam fifty bucks and climbed back into the Mitsubishi, slamming the door. Fifty bucks was too much for the air, but he didn’t have keys to the cash register. He wasn't going to waste time over an unearned thirty dollars, though, and thought that he would probably make up for it later. Adam bent down, resting his hands against the door, peering into the open window.</p><p>“When?” he asked.</p><p>“Tonight. You know the place?”</p><p>“I know the place.”</p><p>Lynch shot him another incredulous smile, shaking his head slightly, like he was deeply amused by the situation. “I hope they taught you how to throw a punch in that trailer park, Parrish.”</p><p>Adam squared his jaw a little. He could throw a punch, sure. He could take one even better. He gestured to bruise on his cheek, Robert Parrish’s handiwork, which looked a lot like Ronan’s own shiner. “You should see the other guy,” he lied.</p><p>Lynch laughed and fired up the engine. A loud, hammering bass immediately blared through the speakers. Adam withdrew his head from the window to preserve what was left of his hearing. He tapped the top of the Mitsubishi with his two knuckles, which were likely to be bruised and fucked up by the end of the night, if all went well for him. If all went well for him, he would have six hundred dollars by the end of the night, too.</p><p>Lynch peeled out of the crowded back lot of the auto shop, taking the base and his effortless money with him. Adam finally exhaled, watching the car disappear around the corner.</p><p>Adam finished his work on the engine quickly, predicting the long bike ride out to the cabbage fields that night. He spent the solitude trying to muster up some strength, letting his emotions be washed away by calm, by pragmatic thoughts like <em>don't flinch too much, don't look too angry, don't say anything, even. </em>He squared himself up for the fight, let the washed out feeling pour over him. He was surprised by how easy it was to not be scared, to not be confident, to not be anything at all.</p><p>It felt a lot like his double-wide. It felt a lot like going home. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. archangel michael</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Kavinsky was doing something with a girl in the back seat of the Mitsubishi.  Ronan was finding it difficult to look away from the rear window of the car, where every now and then he would spot a glowing, pale hand press against the glass, or the car would shake meaningfully on its freshly inflated tires. Ronan was thankful that Jiang was blasting a playlist of loud Chinese rap from his Supra, but in the chaos and noise pollution of the party, he thought he sometimes heard a gasp, a groan, a curse word in a familiar intonation.</p><p>He took a swig of the bourbon he’d found earlier, let it burn his taste buds for a second longer than necessary, and then winced as it went down. He did it again, then again.</p><p>Tonight, someone had lit a huge fire in the center of the field. Its orange light travelled far, casting a dim glow onto the dusty patch they stood around. In the center of the ring, Skov was getting the best of some Junior from Aglionby whose last name was something Dutch and rich sounding like <em>Van der Weiss. </em>The crowd around let out a collective hiss when Skov punched the guy in the groin. Junior hit the ground like a brick, and after a few moments of agonized gasping, he smacked his palm on the ground, ending it.</p><p>Some of the girls cheered as Skov did a showboating dance around the ring. “Yeah, bitch!” he screamed, beating his bare chest.</p><p>Ronan was momentarily distracted. He didn’t notice the dark figure approaching his left until it was too late, and Adam Parrish was there next to him, looking him right in the eyes.</p><p>“Shit, you showed,” he said. He sounded more surprised than he actually was.</p><p>Parrish was gripping the handlebar of a cheap-looking bike, posture straight and eyes drifting around the scene in front of him. Skov was now allowing Jiang to pour a beer into his mouth as Proko tried goading another Junior into stepping into the ring next.</p><p>“It’s Skov’s night,” Ronan said. “He’s a fucking clown, look at him.”</p><p>“I hate clowns,” Adam said, shooting him just a small smile.</p><p>Skov bounced up into the ring again, and fueled by more alcohol than before, he stumbled forward and landed a heavy blow on the pitiful kid who drew the next short straw. What he lacked in grace, he made up for in brute force.</p><p>“Something to calm the nerves?” Ronan offered, holding the bourbon toward Parrish. He didn’t look nervous at all, really, or even like he was here to fight. He looked like Adam Parrish, which was to say, like he was far removed from everyone at this party.</p><p>“No, thanks.”</p><p>Ronan squinted and sized Parrish up again. “You were valedictorian, weren’t you?”</p><p>“Yeah, I was. You missed my speech.”</p><p>Ronan rolled his eyes. “I bet it was a goddamn inspiration, scholarship boy.”</p><p>Adam shrugged one shoulder in response. Then he quietly said, “<em>Per aspera ad astra</em>.”</p><p>Ronan wanted to laugh, to take Adam by the shoulder and lead him out of the party so they could lament the overuse of cliché Latin or trade the bourban for a fast ride through the winding back roads around the mountains, or maybe just sit quietly somewhere quiet and dark. The thoughts were sudden and overwhelming, slipping to the surface with the help of the alcohol. He’d completely forgotten about Kavinsky in the back seat of the Mitsubishi, which is why it startled him so much when he appeared.</p><p>At that moment, Kavinsky’s hollow and high voice called out to them, setting the night into motion.</p><p>“Is that trailer trash I smell?”  He was shirtless, bearing fresh scratches from the acrylics of whichever townie he’d had in the back seat. “Aw shit, Parrish, you came to the wrong place. We’re all out of the free hors d'oeuvres.”</p><p>A few people chuckled at this, and Ronan felt something twinge in his belly. It wasn’t the whiskey. Adam had always been painfully gracious in the face of Kavinsky’s torment at school. Someone would pass him a shitty note or imitate his accent as he walked past, and he’d give them a polite nod of his head as if to say, <em>noted.</em></p><p>Now he just kicked out his bike stand and turned to face them like he was settling in for the night.</p><p>“Not hungry, but thanks.”</p><p>Behind them, someone threw more gas on the fire, which lit up the night and Kavinsky’s blown pupils as he drew nearer.</p><p>“What <em>are </em>you doing here, then, bitch? This shit is members only.”</p><p>“I got an invite. Ask your boy.”</p><p>Kavinsky looked right at Ronan, then, and his expression was unreadable. For a moment, he thought K was possibly furious, possibly crazy with anger, but then a grin split his face.</p><p>“So, you’ve been out fishing, Lynch? Damn. Nice catch.”</p><p>“He can go next. He’s good for the cash.”</p><p>He wanted to sound detached, pragmatic, but there was so much anticipation in the air. He didn’t want to watch Skov break Parrish’s face, but he also wasn’t sure how it might feel to watch Adam explode.</p><p>“Fuck that, he’s up right now,” Kavinsky said, turning to storm into the ring where Skov was putting another Junior in a headlock. He gave Skov a rough shove backwards and then did the same to the Junior, who looked relieved as ever to be saved by the bell.</p><p>K spread his arms out wide and turned in a circle like he was the ringleader at the world’s most intoxicated circus.</p><p>“Ladies and gentlemen! Who wants to see little miss Valedictorian get his ass beat all the way back to the trailer park?”</p><p>The crowd’s cheer was thunderous, because maybe they really did want to see Adam Parrish get destroyed. Adam Parrish, who had bested each and every one of them at Aglionby without so much as a rich aunt to lean on. Or maybe it was just that Kavinsky was hyping them up, and no one wanted to appear unenthusiastic in the company of their host. K ran his parties like sweat shop—everyone was expected to produce the maximum amount of chaos possible without costing him a thing.</p><p>Ronan turned to Adam then, feeling a sudden panic, like he’d led him astray, like he had orchestrated a human sacrifice, and the pyre was suddenly ablaze.</p><p>“You sure about this, Parrish?”</p><p>He didn’t say anything. He just untied the flannel shirt around his waist and placed it carefully on the handlebar of his bike. Then he gently held out a fist toward Ronan, knocking their knuckles together like some kind of goodbye, and meeting his eyes for a brief, unclear moment. With a steady stride, he stalked into the ring, to the darkest side where it was hard to make him out. Ronan held his breath as Kavinsky cleared the way for Skov, sweaty and breathless, and it was starting before Jiang could even load up the next track on the Supra’s speakers.</p><p>Adam took the first hit. It was a blow that landed sloppily against his nose. The sound of the impact was muffled by a collective groan of entertainment. Adam stumbled back, catching the dirt with his hand. Then, like it hadn’t even happened, he was up.</p><p>He slowly revolved around the ring, hands at his sides, completely vulnerable. Ronan felt a quiet urge to scream.</p><p>“Little bitch,” Skov managed to slur out. Adam wasn’t fazed, didn’t react at all, just kept slowly forcing Skov to follow him as he moved about the ring, steadily, carefully. Another few moments of this, and they’d run the risk of boring Kavinsky and the coliseum. K was sitting up on the back of Ronan’s BMW watching intently with a soggy Backwoods blunt between his fingers.</p><p>Then came another blow. Skov lunged forward and hit Adam in the face again, this time on his already bruised cheek. Adam’s head blew backwards while his feet lost their footing. His slow rotation stopped for just a moment, but again, like he was a computer re-booting, he began to stalk Skov, shaking his head back and forth to be rid of whatever pain he was feeling. It wasn’t registering on his face.</p><p>“Fuck him up, man!” Proko yelled.</p><p>Skov landed another hit to his nose, not hard enough to cause Adam to stop stalking him around the ring. It was difficult to tell how fucked up he really was—he was relentlessly composed. Skov bounced around on his toes like he was anxious. Maybe it was because Adam wouldn’t come at him, wouldn’t scramble and scrap like most of the other boys who entered ring.</p><p>At this rate, it would only be a matter of time before Kavinsky gave some kind of kill order and Adam would be pinned to the ground and pummeled into the earth.</p><p>But this time, when Skov ran at him, Adam threw up an elbow, catching him hard under the chin. Skov cursed and held his mouth in his hands. Somehow, Adam had drawn blood.</p><p>Ronan looked to Kavinsky, who was still watching with a glazed look in his eyes as Skov hit Adam, hard in the face again. It seemed to barely touch him this time. He didn’t even wince in response.</p><p>Skov wiped a messy hand over his bloodied nose and almost <em>snarled </em>at Adam in frustration. He ran forward and tried to grab at Adam’s shirt to drag him forward. This gave Adam a moment to land a heavy hit to Skov’s gut, which made the audience whoop in surprise.  </p><p>Skov was tiring out. Barely able to stay upright, and now doubled over in pain. Probably, the effect of the beer he’d chugged and the fights he’d already won were hitting him all at once. He flexed his reddened knuckles and winced.</p><p>Finally, after another tense moment of staring and pacing, Skov tried to tackle Adam to the ground, but Adam slipped out of his line of sight and sent him tumbling onto himself in the dirt. The crowd booed at Skov as he landed on his ass.</p><p>Then it was like a flip had been switched.</p><p>Adam immediately slid down to Skov’s level and grabbed him around the neck with his arm like a snare, which allowed him to sit behind Skov and hold him in place, choking him while Skov thrashed his arms and legs around, trying to scramble about for a punch that would never land at this angle.</p><p>And all of Adam Parrish’s anger was on display, his brow furious and contorted, his long features pointed down toward the squirming boy in his grasp. Ronan dropped the fifth of bourbon to the grass below him and held his breath.</p><p>The crowd was inconsolable, swearing and screaming, now almost entirely in favor of Adam, who was going to win this thing if Skov’s face got any redder. Adam tightened the noose of his arm just a little, enough that Ronan could see the small flex of his bicep, and then Skov was tapping out with thunderous claps on the dirt.</p><p>It was over very fast. Everyone erupted, cheering and throwing shit into the ring as Jiang turned the volume up past a reasonable limit and the line around the ring began to blur.</p><p>“Crazy fucking inbred piece of—” Skov wasn’t able to finish his insult. He rolled over into the grass and hoarsely coughed.</p><p>Adam slowly gathered himself up from the dirt, and Ronan found himself going right to him, even though some of the partygoers were trying to shake Adam by the shoulders and drunkenly shove him about in celebration.</p><p>Adam shrugged them off and met Ronan halfway, breathless.</p><p>“That was fucked up, Parrish,” was all he could say, but he reached out and bumped knuckles with him like it was normal, like they were friends.</p><p>“I’m no Mohammad Ali, I guess.” Ronan could see now that Adam’s chest was heaving a little, his nostrils flared as he took in big breaths of dank party air.</p><p>“How’s your face?”</p><p>But Adam wasn’t touching his face, or even acknowledging the large welt that had sprung up on his other cheek, or the bloodshot left eye that would definitely swell shut tonight. He was holding his shirt out a little, inspecting it. There was dirt smudged all over it, which blended with the oil stains well enough, but Skov had ripped a huge hole in the seam.</p><p>“Guess I should I have taken it off,” he remarked with a kind of reservation.</p><p>Ronan feared what he would say in response to this, so he just let himself be distracted by Kavinsky’s cigar scent coming closer. He approached them from behind, blunt stuck in his teeth as he clapped slowly and theatrically.</p><p>“Nice work, Parrish. That was a hell of a show,” Kavinsky said.</p><p>Adam shrugged with considerably more effort than usual. </p><p>“It was a little gay, though, the way you just—” he paused and let his words drip with gasoline “—<em>dominated</em> him like that.” Pointing to Adam’s ruined shirt, K leaned forward, coming up closer behind Ronan, head peaking over Ronan’s shoulder. “But if your style is wrestling, make sure you bring your spandex next time.”</p><p>Ronan felt every knob of his spine go rigid, poised for danger, though he didn’t know why or what it could be.</p><p>“And you almost looked good out there, trailer trash. We might get you laid, yet.”</p><p>Adam’s jaw tensed as K reached forward, six hundred in cash folded between his fingers. Now he was almost flush against Ronan’s back, bending to let his chin rest casually on his shoulder, where the smoke from his blunt was curling up into Ronan’s face, making everything foggy. He felt the secret slide of K’s hand on his ass as his other hand beckoned Adam forward.</p><p>Adam took the cash floating between them, his unbruised knuckles brushing against Ronan’s chest in the process.</p><p>“Thanks,” he said quietly, but he was looking at Ronan when he spoke.</p><p>Ronan gave him the smallest nod of his head, then he was slowly walking back toward where he’d parked the cheap bike. It was easily the humblest vehicle in a mile radius of the party.</p><p>Ronan wanted to ask him to stay, but he just watched him go, white shirt disappearing as he pedaled further away from the dark field.</p><p>The crowd had taken over the fighting ring, like Adam’s round had signalled a kind of finale to the show. Skov was now passed out in the dark grass where he’d rolled away from Adam, looking a little like he’d been put out of his misery.</p><p>“Stray dogs—they fight the best, don’t they?” K said directly in Ronan’s ear. He was still plastered to Ronan’s back, gripping on tightly like he had no plans to let go.</p><p>“He wasn’t bad.” He didn’t want to sound too impressed, or even proud of himself for making the discovery, though impressed was the wrong word for it. He was galvanized by Adam’s fight, all alight and aimless in his feelings. Ronan felt like running—maybe after Adam, or maybe just in circles. Maybe he would tear himself away from the velcro of K’s hold, and hit the gravel hard, out onto the dark and illicit backroads toward the Barns. Maybe he’d ask Adam to come with him there. “He wasn’t that bad,” he repeated.</p><p>His thoughts wandered, but he felt the unmistakable tug of a short leash drag him back to K’s sharp voice when Kavinsky tightened his grip across his chest while his other hand moved secretly to the waistband of his boxers, slithering dangerously low.</p><p>“Just don’t go getting too attached,” K spat. “In case we have to put him down.”</p><p>Ronan gazed out at the party, the groups of Aglionby boys and their Connecticut girlfriends visiting for the weekend, the local men who were too old attend a high school party, the local girls who were too young to be there. All of them were turned away from K and Ronan, either totally blind to how Kavinsky was touching him, or smart enough not to comment. It made Ronan’s skin crawl and he thought about the townie K was fucking not a half hour ago. He wondered what Adam thought about this, about how Ronan couldn’t even shrug Kavinsky off him like any of the other guys at this party would.  </p><p>“I don’t give a fuck what you do with Adam Parrish,” he lied. Dread sank deep in Ronan’s guts. K’s hand sank deeper, too.</p><p>“Then don’t look so fucking desperate around him.” As he said this, his fingers squeezed sharply on Ronan’s ass, where it would certainly leave a mark.</p><p>“I’m not,” Ronan lied again. He clenched his jaw, grit his teeth, and tried not to react to hard to the sensation, or at the overwhelming flood of shame that started to swell inside him. </p><p>There was a moment, then, where K was silent, and the noise of the party hit a crescendo as his hot breath puffed against Ronan’s cheek. He held him in place and slowly, incongruous with the beat of the music, he swayed. He pulled Ronan tighter against him and moved them together like they were one entity. Ronan couldn't react, couldn't decide if he wanted this, if this was something to hold close and treasure like the other rare shards of affection he collected from Kavinsky. Ronan heard him take a long breath in.</p><p>Then he slowly removed his hand from Ronan’s waistband gave him another tight squeeze around the chest.</p><p>“Let’s go for a drive,” he mumbled into his ear.</p><p> </p><p>/</p><p> </p><p>A few days later, Adam had a very rare day off work, and he allowed himself a few hours to sulk.</p><p>The mess of his face was more severe than ever. It took a full 24 hours of icing his eye with a frozen shot glass for the swelling to go down. He wished, not for the first time, that he could just use the bag of freezer-burnt peas in the back of the icebox, but there would be hell to pay if he was caught wasting food like that. It didn't matter that the peas had been there since last Christmas and were likely to stay there forever. </p><p>On that Saturday afternoon, when Adam’s father was gone to work, he sat next to his mother on their scratchy loveseat, pressing the cold glass against his cheek, where the oldest bruise was a sickly yellow, and the freshest was dark blue. Adam had heated up a can of chili for both of them, and they sat together in silence as a re-run of Family Guy played on the television, and as the dull air of the fan offered them no relief. </p><p>His mother had said nothing about Adam’s bruises. She wouldn’t even look him in the eye. In another life, maybe she would have been horrified, or berated him for getting in fights. As it was, she knew not to ask questions about bruises. He put his tired feet up on the the cluttered coffee table, avoiding the ash tray and the losing scratch cards collecting there. He wished for somewhere that felt truly relaxing, for something to fill his time besides Family Guy and his mother's cold shoulder. </p><p>As a commercial for the Magic Bullet played a third time that afternoon, Adam’s good ear registered the sound of crunching gravel outside. There was a hum of an engine, not his dad’s loud Ford, but a more quiet and clean thrum. Adam spring up from the sweaty loveseat and moved gently to the window. </p><p>Ronan’s BMW was barrelling up the driveway. He had to be careful what he wished for. </p><p>He threw on his shoes and didn’t say anything to his mother, whose eyes were glued to the television. He slipped out the front door and caught Ronan just as he was turning off his engine. He stood on the porch, arms crossed, waiting for Ronan to step out. He only poked his head out and gave him a once-over, arm draped over the side of his open window. </p><p>“You look like shit, Parrish.”</p><p>“Hello to you, too.”</p><p>Adam slowly slipped down the few front steps of the trailer and found himself hovering in that lingering shame he always felt around the Aglionby boys who had fancy cars. His double-wide was on full display here. There was no classroom or pop quizzes to hide behind. His Latin conjugations were useless here. Adam was wearing too-loose jeans from the Goodwill and a shirt that he’d had since his seventh grade growth spurt. Ronan was wearing designer sunglasses and had his wrist resting on the wheel of a car that cost more than Adam’s entire scholarship.</p><p>Again, Adam found himself bending low to peer into Ronan's open window. His ribs ached a little this time.</p><p>“What’s up?” he asked. A hot moment of panic coursed through him, like maybe he was here to demand the money back, to say the fight had been a scratch.</p><p>“I have an idea,” said Ronan. He flashed him a smile. White teeth, nothing nice about it.</p><p>“Oh yeah?”</p><p>“You may have won that last fight, but Skov was trashed and already went three rounds.”</p><p>“What’s your point?” Adam tried not to take it personally.</p><p>“My <em>point </em>is that you spent most of it getting your teeth kicked in. You need to learn how to defend yourself, Parrish.”</p><p>“I did defend myself.” Adam grit his teeth, unsure if this was turning into an argument. </p><p>“You survived it,” Ronan said. “That’s not a defense.”</p><p>Adam begged to differ. He stood back from the car window and crossed his arms, which still ached, along with the rest of his broken-down body.</p><p>“So, what’s the idea?”</p><p>Ronan gave him another toothy smile and said, “get in.”</p><p>This was how Adam found himself back out at the cabbage fields, this time with the sunlight hot and pressing down on him. The flattened dirt was littered with red solo cups and empty bottles. There was an unnameable amount of trash around them. Flattened cardboard cases of beer, a forgotten sandal, a sea of cigarette butts. There was even a part of someone’s car sitting near the pile of ashy wood and empty gas cans from the fire. It was very loud and ugly here, less intimidating than it had been in the night, lit up by expensive car headlights.</p><p>Ronan stood across from him in the ring. His knuckles were no longer bandaged, just red and cracked. Adam stared at them as Ronan began touting instructions.</p><p>“You have to keep your hands up.” He brought his own bruised fists to his face. “Cover your fucking face, for the love of God, don’t just let them hang at your sides.”</p><p>Adam felt foolish, but he mirrored him.</p><p>“Good, now put your dominant hand forward. Elbows down, hands up. One foot out in front of you, the other behind you, diagonal.”</p><p>He did as Roan said, and when Ronan began to move, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, Adam copied him. Soon, they were revolving around the ring together.</p><p>“When I come at you, try to block it.”</p><p>Ronan came closer, and sent him a slow fist, which Adam caught around his forearms, pushing back. Ronan didn’t give him any praise or even let him know that he was doing it right, he just exhaled and sent him another fist, this time faster. Adam barely ducked out of its way.</p><p>“Close,” Ronan said.</p><p>Adam cracked a smile. “Try it again.”</p><p>They did this until their arms ached, until the sun was starting to turn the sky orange and pink above them. Adam had almost forgotten about his sore face, his tired ribs, his mother who he’d left to waste away on the couch. He felt something like exhilaration.</p><p>“Alright,” Ronan said, a little breathless. “Try to hit me now.”</p><p>Adam bit the inside of his cheek. This, for some reason, made him more vulnerable and unsure than dodging the hits. He felt he that he couldn’t just throw a punch, like it was nothing, like it meant nothing.  </p><p>They squared up. Adam threw out his fist much too sloppy and slow and watched as Ronan easily ducked away from it. He blew out a puff of frustrated air.</p><p>“Exhale when you throw your punch,” Ronan said. He sounded just a little smug about it.</p><p>Adam tried again and again, but Ronan dodged him every time. On his tenth attempt, he actually started laughing.</p><p>“You’re a shit boxer, Parrish.”</p><p>Adam dropped his fists and considered this for a few beats. Then he dove forward, grabbing Ronan around the middle and dragging him down in a fast, rough tackle. Ronan’s laughter died in his throat when he was flat on his back, bested, as Adam hovered over him, pinning his fighter hands to his sides.</p><p>“So, I’m a shit boxer.” Adam grinned down at him.</p><p>Ronan grinned back. There was a look on his face, maybe pride, or appreciation. He wiggled a little under him, testing out the restraint. Adam pressed down harder, like he wasn’t going anywhere.</p><p>“And you call <em>me</em> a dirty fighter?”</p><p>“Is there a rule against this?” Adam asked. “What, are you going to call the officials? Ask for a rematch?”</p><p>“Maybe a drug test, you freak of nature,” Ronan said with admiration, trying again to get out from under him. Adam didn’t let up.</p><p>He chuckled softly as sweat started to slide down his temples, hot from the sun and the effort of holding Ronan down. For a moment, they both quit insulting each other and laughing.</p><p>It was quiet out in the fields. Adam could hear his own heart beating, and with his hands on Ronan’s wrists, he could feel Ronan’s pulse matching his—fast, erratic. He realized a little too late that he was staring at Ronan, and Ronan was staring at him, and neither of them were saying anything. He thought for half a second that he could feel Ronan adjusting his hips under Adam’s, and if he did that, then Adam would have to do it too, and this would be something much different than he planned. He didn’t have a chance to decide his move.</p><p>The unmistakable sound of an engine cut through the silence. Adam released Ronan’s writs and stood up too fast, looking out to where an unfamiliar truck was just driving past, probably heading to the tobacco farms up the road.</p><p>Ronan stood up a few moments later, shaking his wrists.</p><p>“Sorry,” Adam tried, wondering if he’d hurt him. It was a painful sentiment. He didn’t know what he was apologizing for, or what else to say to him.</p><p>“I’m not made of glass.”</p><p>It was just ambiguous enough to shut Adam up. He looked out to the road again and let some of the things he’d been ignoring float to the surface.</p><p>Like how he knew some of Ronan’s bruises weren’t from fighting. They were from something more sinister, maybe. Adam could feel that in his gut when he looked at Joseph Kavinsky.</p><p>Ronan was less like glass and more like sand. He looked smooth on the surface, but you could shift him around, press a little, and you’d slip right through him. Adam wondered if it was safe to keep pressing down.</p><p>“Who taught you this? I mean, where did you learn to fight?” he asked, filling the silence.</p><p>Ronan, bending down to pick up his keys and phone, which he’d thrown aside, didn’t answer him for a minute. He stood up and met Adam’s eyes again.</p><p>“My dad,” he answered. He took a moment to stare at his hands before asking, “where’d you learn to…?”</p><p>“My dad.”</p><p>Ronan nodded, looking away, rubbing a hand over his buzzed head. Then he wordlessly turned back towards where he’d parked the car down the field. He looked over his shoulder to make sure that Adam was following.</p><p>Adam did. He was happy to ride in the BMW, and not in Kavinsky’s obnoxious Mitsubishi. This car suited Ronan more, somehow. They climbed in and Ronan put his music on low, carefully pulling out of the familiar, wretched cabbage field and toward the main road.</p><p>“I don’t need to be home for a while,” Adam said. The sun was quickly setting, but Adam wished it was dark in the car, so maybe it would be easier to share the confined space.</p><p>“Good,” Ronan replied.</p><p>They drove out toward the tobacco fields, and then around the corner toward the next county. Ronan turned up the music just a little and Adam rolled down the window, so the hot air felt cool and fast against his injured face. Ronan sped like he was daring a local sheriff to catch up with him, and Adam actually laughed as he pulled a quick and dangerous U-turn in the other direction. They didn’t talk, just listened to the hypnotic bass of the music and grinned when Ronan pulled off a tricky turn. When they swung around a narrow bend, Adam reached out held onto Ronan’s shoulder for stability.</p><p>He didn’t let go for a while.</p><p> </p><p>/</p><p> </p><p>It was late when Ronan quietly slipped inside the front door. The alarm wasn’t set, it never was. Anyone could slide right into Kavinsky’s house and take what they wanted, he guessed. Nobody ever would, probably because it would either be a death wish, or Kavinsky wouldn’t care. He probably wouldn’t bat an eyelash even if someone set the place on fire.</p><p>The cold central air hit him like a wall. He could hear the basement alive and full of strangers, asking for him to go down into the mess and play his part for the night. He had a missed text from Kavinsky from earlier in the night—a picture of him fucking someone that Ronan had winced at. He climbed up the stairs to the neglected second floor where his room was and thought about dropping his phone in the toilet of his en suite bathroom.</p><p>But he didn’t because he had exchanged numbers with Adam and was hovering over the send button on a text.</p><p>
  <em>you still need to learn how to hit. </em>
</p><p>As he ascended to the top of the carpeted stairs, he hit send, and exhaled.</p><p>Up in his room, he stripped out his clothes and got into the elaborate glass shower, turning the heat up all the way. He stood under the spray and thought for too long about the feeling of Adam’s narrow hips. He had just the smallest indents on his wrists from Adam’s nails digging in a little too hard. His chest felt like it was full of molten metal. He put his lips to the marks on his wrists, closed his eyes, made a silent and nebulous confession to God about it, and moved his hand down to relieve the pressure that was building.</p><p>When the door opened behind him, Ronan wasn’t even surprised. He pressed his forehead into the wet tile and tried to disappear completely. It didn’t work.</p><p>“You been up here jerkin’ it all night?” Kavinsky said. He had slithered down to sit on the toilet lid, watching Ronan through the steam.</p><p>“I was out for a drive.”</p><p>“That’s fucking boring, Lynch.”</p><p>Ronan glanced to where his phone was sitting on the counter beside the sink. He imagined K going through it, finding Adam’s number. It made his skin prickle to even think about it.</p><p>Kavinsky stared and stared at him, his eyes wet and bloodshot. He was drunk, unfocused, silent. Ronan just scrubbed himself quickly and shut the water off with a little too much force. He grabbed the towel hanging beside him and covered himself from K’s unrelenting gaze.</p><p>“What?” Ronan finally said, a bit of an edge to it.</p><p>Kavinsky stood up. He reached for Ronan’s towel, tried to tug on its knot. Ronan gripped it tight and pushed him away softly. This made Kavinsky’s eyebrows drop low, his stare turning vicious. </p><p>“I know you’re hard.”</p><p>“I’m fine.” </p><p>“You can be such a little bitch, Ro, you know that?” K said, laughing. Ronan found himself comparing it to the way Adam laughed with him. It was different. It had an agenda.</p><p>“Move,” Ronan said. It was surprising to him, maybe to both of them, how little he wanted Kavinsky to get him off at that moment. </p><p>Kavinsky stood there with his hand on Ronan’s waist, gripping his towel like he might not let go. He was smiling like it was a game. Finally, Ronan let him have it, let him pull the towel away, and he slipped out of his grip, naked and shivering in spite of the steam. He grabbed his phone and stalked past Kavinsky, into his room. He heard K wolf whistle as he left.</p><p>Ronan pulled on boxers quickly and sat on the edge of his bed as Kavinsky stumbled out of the bathroom. He left with a middle finger pointed at Ronan, lighting a cigarette. Even after he’d gone, the smoke lingered in the room and made Ronan’s nose itch.</p><p>He unclenched his jaw and looked down at his phone, where he had a notification waiting for him. It was a response from Adam.</p><p>
  <em>I get off work at 6. </em>
</p><p>Ronan stood up, moved to the door of his room, which was not really his room, but borrowed space. He turned out the lights and locked the door.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>cw: consent issues, sexual degradation, gun play, depictions of cocaine and other drug use, forced/pressured drug use, depictions of blood and injuries, gay slurs</p></blockquote></div></div>
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